The Poetry Reading
by mnemosyne23
Summary: Malcolm reading poetry? What on earth?


**The Poetry Reading  
By Mnemosyne**

  
_DISCLAIMER:_ Not mine! 

_SUMMARY:_ Malcolm reading poetry? What on earth? 

_RATING:_ G, for being fluffy as a hip-hoppy bunny! 

_CATEGORY:_ R, R/S 

_NOTES:_  
This was written VERY quickly - and I do mean VERY - this morning before work. I hope you enjoy! It's about as fluffy as a story can get without having to register with the Cottonballs of America Organization. LOL! 

  


* * *

  
"I. Do not. Do. Poetry." 

Lieutenant Malcolm Reed was struggling to keep his head above water in this argument, but it was one he was intent on winning. Women had goaded him into enough rough patches and sore spots throughout his life, and he wasn't about to let one turn him into a sap. That was just… inconceivable. 

"Look, you can keep staring at me all you like, lassie. I refuse to read you poetry!" 

It was unnerving, the way she kept staring at him. Her eyes were solemn, all-knowing, as if she could already see the outcome of this argument and just wanted him to hurry up and get there. A small part of him started to cave under the pressure. 

"War stories!" he exclaimed, trying to shore up his defenses while he still had a chance. "How'd you like that, eh? Yes, some good old war stories, with plenty of explosions and shoot 'em ups and heroic cavalry charges into the fray. Yes! That's the ticket. What do you say?" 

She blinked calmly, dark, almond-shaped eyes unwavering. //This,// she seemed to be saying, //is irrelevant.// 

Malcolm was beginning to panic now. His eyes kept drifting over to the book sitting on a chair by his desk - the book she wanted him to read from. It was a very nice book, with a soft leather cover and a satin ribbon for a bookmark. It had been a wedding gift from the Captain. Part of Malcolm had always known that one day he'd have to USE it, but he'd never imagined how difficult it would be. 

"All right, all right. But not that. How about Shakespeare?" he offered. "He wrote some lovely stuff in _Henry V._" Placing a hand over his heart, he made an expansive gesture with his other arm. "Once more into the breech, old friends!" 

She giggled. 

Urged on by the response, Malcolm continued. "Or what about Hamlet? There's a fellow who knew his poetry. To dream, or not to dream, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler…" 

He trailed off when she yawned, and looked at him with that same plaintive gaze she'd been using all evening. 

"You have no respect for culture, lassie, do you realize that?" he said, then sighed. "Oh, very well. You win." 

Walking over to the crib, he leaned over and scooped up the pudgy form of his infant daughter. Cradling her in the crook of one arm, he picked up the book of nursery rhymes off the seat of the handcrafted rocking chair which had been a baby shower gift from Commander Tucker. Settling into a comfortable position, with his daughter crooked in one arm and the book open on the opposite knee, he gazed down into the baby's face. 

"Just don't tell your mother, dearest," he murmured as he began to rock. "She might make me start reading her some REAL poetry. The next thing you know she'd want me to start serenading her in the mess hall, and then what would happen to daddy's reputation? I'd never be able to blow up an enemy ship again." 

Amaya Sato-Reed gurgled and reached up a pudgy hand to tug on her daddy's uniform. _Read, read!_ she seemed to be saying. 

Laughing softly, Malcolm wrapped her small hand in his much larger one. "All right, all right. Women." His eyes twinkled as he winked at her, then looked down at the open book on his knee. 

"_Humpty dumpty sat on a wall,_" he began to read, his voice soft and melodious. "_Humpty dumpty had a great fall. All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Humpty Dumpty together again._" Looking down at his daughter again, he said solemnly, "But Humpty Dumpty was a prat who should never have been sitting on a wall in the first place." 

Amaya laughed, wiggling in his arms. 

Malcolm grinned. "You liked that one, eh? Okay, how about another." He looked down at the book, and began to read again. "_Hickory dickory dock, the mouse ran up the clock._" He paused and gave her a serious look. "What is it with nursery rhyme characters and ending up where they don't belong? Ah well, to continue. _The clock struck one, and down he run_ Tsk, tsk, that should be _ran_…." 

When Hoshi Sato-Reed got off bridge duty an hour later, she found her husband and their daughter deeply asleep, a book of nursery rhymes open on the floor beside them where it had fallen. Grinning, she walked over to the sleeping pair and covered them with an afghan borrowed from the foot of their bed. 

"You big softie," she murmured, kissing Malcolm's forehead tenderly. 

He shifted in his sleep. "Silly Muffet… whey tastes horrible," he mumbled. 

Hoshi could hardly stifle her laughter. 

  
**THE END**


End file.
